Page 20 of Steel Beauty

She lets out a small, shaky laugh, maybe more nerves than amusement. “This is incredibly unprofessional of me.”

I lift my empty glass, and Dave gives me a nod. “To hell with professionalism. It’s overrated.”

Her lips twitch at that, but her eyes betray the hesitation she can’t quite mask. “I could lose my job if anyone knew.”

“Don’t worry.” I hold her gaze, steady, reassuring. “No one will know.”

She glances down, adjusting the drink napkin with careful precision before looking back at me. “You’ve been matched with someone, and that match didn’t come cheap.”

“We might look like perfect mates on paper, but she’s not the woman for me.”

Her brow furrows, concern slipping through the cracks in her calm expression. “I hope I didn’t say anything to make you feel that way.”

I consider telling her everything—that talking to her felt natural while everything with Cleopatra felt wrong. But instead, I shake my head and offer a piece of the truth. “I knew Cleopatra and I weren’t compatible within the first five minutes.”

She studies my face, her eyes tracing over each feature like she’s piecing together a familiar puzzle. “This is weird for me… putting your face with the voice.”

I watch her closely, trying to read what she might think—if she’s impressed, indifferent, or somewhere in between. But she gives nothing away, her gaze steady, unreadable.

Not all women are drawn to men like me. I’m a big bloke—broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of build you get from years of tackling on a rugby field. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a five o’clock shadow that sticks around no matter how often I shave.

My tattoos speak louder than I do sometimes—black ink winding down my arms, across my chest, marking my heritage and parts of my life that words can’t explain. And the scars... well, they’re remnants from battles or challenges I didn’t always win. They’re souvenirs etched into my skin, reminders that life rarely goes easy on anyone.

I get it—I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.

“You probably pictured some blond surfer.” I gesture to myself with a smirk. “Not a half-Samoan guy straddling two very different cultures.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a smile, but she shakes her head. “I didn’t have a picture in my mind.”

But there’s something in her eyes—a glint of approval, maybe even interest. Her gaze continues a beat longer than necessary, as if she’s quietly sizing me up and maybe likes what she sees.

I nod, feeling a little relieved. “Yeah, same here. I couldn’t picture you either.”

She leans back, a teasing gleam in her eye as the corner of her mouth lifts. “Now that I see you… you look a bit like Roman Reigns, the wrestler.”

A laugh escapes me, easy and unguarded. “You’re not the first to say that.”

Her grin widens, and damn if that smile doesn’t hit me straight in the gut, stirring something I wasn’t ready for.

“Well, you look like Kate Beckinsale.”

She arches a brow, amusement sparking in her eyes. “I’ve heard that one a few times.”

“It’s true,” I tell her, holding her gaze.

She tilts her head, pretending to weigh it. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

I smile, letting it settle between us, slow and deliberate. “You should.”

Dave slides a fresh whisky in front of me. I nod my thanks and turn my attention back to Charleston. “Have you had a chance to see any of Sydney yet?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. But my coworkers and I have plans for tomorrow—a coastal walk, maybe the market afterward.”

“Good choice. That walk’s something else, especially at sunrise.”

She glances at her watch and lets out a laugh. “Yeah, let’s be real. Sunrise probably isn’t happening.”

“Fair enough. But when you’re ready for that surfing lesson, you know who to call.”

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